They Call him Angel
by Stalks-the-Moon
Summary: A collection of fics sketching out the mechanics of my SS's relationship with some of the companions in the game that I kinda didn't want to make separate posts. Mostly really, really gay. probably will never exceed a T-rating. Not all the same timeline, though roughly in chronological order of the game.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! Welcome back! Recently I've been playing a lot of Fallout 4 and just generally seeing how gay it could get. SO, here's an assortment of stories involving my SS, Angel Mao. I'm sure I'll do a formal story about him eventually...**

 **Word count: 2,817**

 **Warnings: Canon-typical violence, boys in love, PTSD, recreational drug use, a minor description of some really nasty bugs Florida and Hawaii and generally anywhere that is tropical you guys have a bug problem.**

* * *

 **Sixty Minute Man**

 _ **(Preston Garvey/Angel Mao)**_

"I'd like you to travel with me for this one, if you could."

Preston looks up from the garden he's weeding, surprised. Angel is leaning against the fence, smirking like the cat that got the cream. And really, there is no reason that Angel shouldn't look pleased. Sanctuary is doing well. The other settlements are well-supplied. The Minutemen have made a name for themselves, and raiders think twice about attacking any settlements. They have leads now on where Shaun might be. It's as though, for the first time since walking out of the Vault, Angel is finally getting all of his ducks in a line.

But this is kind of out of nowhere.

"It's just a group of big-headed raiders, right?" Preston gets up off of his knees, brushing his hands off on his pants. "I've seen you take down bigger threats all on your own. I'm sure I'd just get in your way."

"You'd have my back," Angel corrects, though he does look a bit embarrassed at Preston's praise. He ducks his head, and his voice is a bit muffled, but Preston can hear him loud and clear when he says, "I'd just feel better if you were there."

"Is that an order, General?" Preston teases good-naturedly. Angel looks startled for a moment before he gets the joke; no matter how long he holds the position or how many times Preston reminds him, Angel is still not used to being the man in charge.

( _"Nora was the Captain of my squad, and I was okay with that," Angel had explained one night over a mug of hot cocoa, something Preston never thought he'd see, much less actually drink. They'd found some in the back of an abandoned supermarket, and Angel had smiled like a kid with a piece of candy. Probably because he practically was a kid- only about 32, still pretty young if you exclude the 200 something years he'd been in cryo- and he was, in fact, holding candy._

" _When we got married, Nora was always the one making plans and keeping everything in line. I kind of liked that, I suppose. Not having to make the big decisions, not having to worry about fucking up." Angel lets out a shaky breath, leaning heavily against the wall behind him._

 _He doesn't say anything for the rest of the night. Preston doesn't expect him to._ )

Angel, Preston realized sometime after they'd met, is not the most confident of people. Soft-spoken and soft-hearted, he can give orders when they need to be given and take the head off of a raider at 500 yards with a pipe-rifle, sure. But when he has the option, he'd much rather follow than lead. He likes to write and garden and fold bubblegum wrappers into little foil animals for the kids in the settlements ( _"Folding luck," he calls it as he, ever the dad, dangles a paper crane off of a string to help calm a woman's crying child. "Goodness knows these kids will need it."_ ). He doesn't like to talk much and he doesn't like when people get overly hand-sy with him. He likes cooking and upgrading pretty much everyone's equipment if they let him borrow it. He's afraid of spiders and giant cockroaches ( _"Lived in Hawaii for about three weeks as a child refugee," he'd said, poking at one of the dead insects with a wary toe of a boot. "Trust me, they get big there without radiation. I'd hate to see how big they are now."),_ and he's absolutely terrified of failure.

And Preston put him in charge of the Minutemen. Granted, the decision was made when Preston had really not seen all the various facets of the man he travels with on occasion, but, still, he isn't sure he's felt so guilty about anything since the massacre. It's a bit too late to change anything, though: Angel's made such a good impression on everyone that they will accept no other leader likely until after he dies, and Angel is determined not to disappoint no matter how hard it gets to be on him.

It's a good two day's walk to the settlement they're trying to get to, and they make good time and stop pretty late in the night. The house is old, the walls rickety, but Angel shrugs off his pack the moment they're sure the house is clear, so Preston settles down too. The rifles go against the wall, but Angel keeps his pistol close. Always the cautious one, Angel, but Preston doesn't blame him; Commonwealth is a lot more dangerous now than it had been when Angel had lived in it.

( _"Used to be a park a little east of here," Angel said, pointing out landmarks that Preston wouldn't have even noticed before. "Nora and I would drive out there when we needed some quiet time. Found a puppy there, once." Angel got quiet for a minute, and Preston noted a fine tremble in the man's shoulders and a listless look in his eyes. "I wonder what happened to him."_

" _I'm sure he was fine," Preston assured, placing a gentle hand on Angel's shoulder. Angel didn't draw away._ )

Angel takes first watch, settling next to the fire with his pistol in his lap, playing games on his Pip-boy. The Vault Survivor doesn't always sleep easily, and he always wakes Preston when he's tired, so Preston doesn't feel bad about letting him take watch.

Except, tonight, Preston can't sleep. Thoughts roll in his head, fast and vicious and eclectic, switching between stressing topics faster than Preston can actually keep up. The future of the settlements, of the Minutemen, of himself and of Angel: these are things he tries not to think about, but they tend to sneak up on him. He tries not to toss and turn restlessly, but he can't help but shift and fidget. He jumps when Angel calls his name softly.

"Can't sleep that well?" the Vault survivor asks, poking at the fire. Preston turns over so that he can face Angel. The light from the fire casts sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the bone structure and the scars. The scars. There are stories behind those that Preston thinks about all the time, but he's never asked about them. He knows that Angel was a soldier before the war. He gets the shakes, sometimes, after a fight, when he finds a body- man or woman, ghoul or human, adult or child- that's so perfectly preserved that he can tell how they died, when someone says something a certain way.

( _"Angel, huh? Well, don't you live up to your name?"_

 _Angel flinches away from the ghoul, face seemingly blank but Preston can see the fine lines of stress. Angel smiles and bullshits his way through the rest of the conversation, but he excuses himself as soon as possible. He hurries back to their shared hotel room. Preston holds him while he trembles. Angel cries, screams, thrashes, and Preston understands._ )

"Come here," Angel offers with a smile, patting the ground beside him. Preston stumbles over to him, slowly, waiting for Angel to take back his offer. He doesn't. He just smiles, staring into the fire as though it holds all the answers.

Preston settles on the ground next to Angel, staring into the fire with him. He gets it, now, why Angel enjoys this. The glow of the coals shifts and dances, sparks leaping every now and then. The warmth and light is soothing, calming, almost hypnotic.

Angel's knee bumps against Preston's, and it's then that Preston realizes he's been leaning his head against Angel's shoulder. The Vault survivor's body is thin, almost bony, lean muscle and yellowed-paper skin stretched over sharp edges, but it's hardly uncomfortable. Angel is warm, solid, sure, and he doesn't seem to mind the fact that Preston is there, so Preston doesn't move.

When he wakes, he finds his hand entangled with Angel's, the man's thumb very softly rubbing circles into the back of Preston's hand. The sun is only barely peeking over the horizon, and Preston scrambles up when he realizes how long Angel must have been awake. Angel smiles in a concerned fashion, letting out a huffed laugh and shaking his head. He doesn't look tired in the slightest, but Preston still feels a bit guilty.

"C'mon," Angel encourages, standing and brushing the dirt off his pants and getting everything together. "If we leave now, we might even be able to secure a bed for the night."

They do make it to the settlement in time to secure a bed. In fact, they make it just in time for happy hour at the local pub. It's little more than a shack with a bar separating the rabble from the hard liquor, and everyone greets them both with the kind of gusto that suggests they were drinking long before happy hour started. Angel splits of the bar while Preston lingers at the edges of the largest groups of people, hoping to catch at least the gist of the conversations. Most of them are at the point where they're angry at just about everything, but they seem to generally be railing against the raiders. It's the usual stuff: destroyed farms and demands for food and money, a few warning shots here and there. They haven't escalated to hurting anyone yet, but the people are afraid.

When Angel shares his information later that night, he confirms what Preston heard. They're sitting on the bed ( _"Sorry, Garvey, they've only got a single-bed room left," Angel had said, nervously scratching at the hairs at the base of his neck. Preston just shrugged, pretending not to care. He cared, but not in the way Angel might have thought_.), side by side, Angel swirling a bottle of purified water in his lap. Preston can see the foiled edge of a packet of pills sticking out of Angel's pack, and he just hopes Angel is going to save some for a fight. He isn't going to speak poorly about Angel, not going to criticize the way he does things, but he does _worry_ about the man sometimes. He limits himself when taking drugs recreationally, of course, but he is building a tolerance; Preston can see it clearly when Angel has to take more and more of a particular drug for it to be effective in a fight. It worries him greatly.

He doesn't say anything, though. Because he trusts that Angel knows what he's doing. Because he _trusts Angel_ , as reckless and selfless as the man can be at times. He's spent every spare cap on the settlements, sometimes to the point where all he has is a couple magazines of ammunition left in his pack and not enough caps to pay for more and they're scrounging what they can off of the corpses. At least Angel has enough sense to be able to trade drugs for ammo, even if it does take some convincing.

But right now they're not really desperate for anything, so Angel pops two pills and lies down so that his head is in Preston's lap. It takes a little bit for the drugs to really kick in, but the effects are obvious. Angel relaxes into a squishy puddle in Preston's lap, his gaze far away, his breaths long and easy. Inevitably, he starts to prattle. At first, it's just random stuff as he searches for a topic he can latch on to. He's gone through a range of topics like this, from Swan to mirelurks to his fractured memories from the Vault. Angel wouldn't even get high in his presence without trusting him, after all, so Preston tries not to feel awkward when the topic turns personal.

Angel starts talking about Shaun. Well, more like before Shaun. "Nora just wanted a child, really," Angel says dreamily, closing his eyes and smiling as Preston scratches at his scalp. "Would have been Emilie if it was a girl. But we had Shaun. And we fought so hard to have Shaun. It took us so long to conceive him- and not because of lack of effort on our parts. But he was born… born so early, so little." Angel takes one of Preston's hands in both of his, trembling. Preston takes a sharp breath, ready to cut the Vault Survivor off if it gets to be too much, but Angel just presses on.

"He was in a plastic box for the first couple weeks. When we first got to take him home, we were so gentle with him, so careful. We were taking him into the doctor's office if there was even the slightest possibility of illness. Nora quit her job to take care of him. I wanted to do that too, just so that I could spend more time with him, and…" Angel presses a kiss to the center of Preston's palm, lets out an uneven breath against the skin there. "I'm almost okay with not finding him, Preston," Angel whispers, as though the whole world might be listening in on their conversation. "I'm almost okay with not knowing what happened to him. Imagine what he must think of me! I… I almost don't think I can face him. Not after I've let him down like this."

By the time he's done with his spiel, Angel is shaking so badly that Preston is legitimately concerned that he's going to slip back into one of his episodes. Preston doesn't know what he's supposed to say. Words of comfort seem… empty, in a situation like this. It is not, after all, as though Preston can understand what Angel is going through.

So, Preston says nothing. He very gently rearranges the two of them so that they can lay side-by-side, so that Angel can curl into his chest. He can feel Angel's shaky breaths as he struggles to hold himself together, and Preston holds him as he rides out the panic, the fear, the sadness. Preston holds him as though he's something terribly delicate.

Preston holds him like he never wants to let go.

The raiders have taken up residency in an abandoned warehouse, and Angel assesses the situation through the sight of his rifle with an expression somewhere between a pout and a frown. He slides a bullet into place with the kind of reverence he puts into very few things, and Preston takes that as a cue to line up his sights as well. Preston draws a deep breath.

Angel fires first. The suppressed rifle makes relatively little sound as the bullet pierces the head of a raider two floors below. Preston fires in the lull that is Angel prepping his bolt-action. The power of the shot and distinct lack of recoil startles him, and Angel smirks.

"Nice, huh?" the Vault survivor says cockily, popping another shot. "I made a few adjustments when we were in Sanctuary. I hope you don't mind." Another shot, and there isn't any more time to talk because the raiders have finally figured out where the pop-shots are coming from and they're starting to fire back. Preston tucks himself under the concrete railing, keeping his head down and only taking shots when he was certain the fire was off of his hiding place.

Angel, Preston has come to understand, is a terribly deadly man. A veteran even before he signed up for the Vault, he can be accurate with even the most basic of weapons. Preston has learned just to not bet against Angel; he's lost too many caps to the Vault survivor with a pipe-pistol and a raider at 200 yards.

One final shot, then silence echoes through the warehouse. Angel stays at his sights, tense, for a few moments longer before finally letting his guard down enough to lower his weapon. He chuckles, shaking his head, and starts to disassemble his rifle.

"Damn good shooting, Preston," he says, twisting the suppressor off with long, practiced fingers. Preston ducks his head at the praise, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips.

"You too, General," Preston returns, ready to sling his rifle over his shoulder and move out, but Angel pauses, head canted to one side, eyes closed. "General? Something wrong?"

Angel is still for another long moment before breaking into a smile. "Nah. Just me being paranoid." He snatches Preston's hat off of his head and quickly replaces it with his own messenger cap, the Minutemen symbol embroidered on one side, a Valentine Detective Agency button just beneath it. The General's hat, Preston's heard people calling it. Preston felt a swell of… something, wearing it, Angel's hand still resting on his head, that stupid loopy grin on the Vault survivor's face. "Now chin up! We've got good news to give to the settlers, don't we?"

 _Love_ , Preston realizes, watching Angel walk towards the stairs. _That feeling is love._


	2. Chapter 2

**John Hancock was one of my favorite characters, not gonna lie. Sure, he had plenty of flaws, but he was possibly the most faceted character. And I really, really liked that. Great job, Bethesda.**

 **Word count: 2,308**

 **Warnings: Major spoilers (Fallout 4), recreational drug use, PTSD, boys in love, harsh language.**

* * *

 **Jet High**

 _ **Angel Mao/John Hancock**_

" _See! Nonono, fingers away. There we go. Right there, right there. Hehe. Yay! Hi, Honey! I don't think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a father you are. But we're going to anyway...!"_

He plays the tape every night, when he thinks Hancock is asleep. At first, Hancock didn't know what it was. He would hear the sound of the tape being clicked into place, the sound of chatter in the backround, and then he would fall asleep. He's pretty sure that's what Angel intended, waiting for Hancock to curl up in his bedroll, Angel passing it off not sleeping as not being tired, not needing to sleep much, not wanting to sleep and leave them both defenseless.

Hancock, for the most part, never thought much of it: they travel hard and well into the night, so Hancock is generally exhausted by the time they find a place to make camp. The camp-making thing is generally Angel's job. "Need something to do with my hands," he'd explained once, mixing some kind of mystery meat into some spiced vegetable broth. "Don't want to get all fidgety." And Angel did fidget, if he was forced to stand still for too long ( _"Never liked being a sitting duck," Angel said, spinning Hancock's switchblade between his fingers. Hancock frowned, checked his back pocket just to be sure, then snatched the knife out of Angel's hand. Angel just smirked_ ). Hancock liked to imagine that's why he never made it very far with the Brotherhood of Steel.

So late at night, Hancock would rest and Angel would stay awake, keeping watch and listening to that holotape. Or, at least, Angel assumes Hancock rests. The ghoul does, some nights, but even he has nights when weariness does not permit easy sleep.

The woman's voice is Angel's spouse, Hancock can assume, and the child babbling must be Shaun. Hancock can't see Angel's face, but he can imagine the many ways it might look

Sad, maybe, like when they returned to Vault 111 and found Nora still resting in her cryotube, peaceful as though she were sleeping because someone else had come in and had the decency to lay her to proper rest, or when he kneels down next to a person- ghoul or human, woman or man, adult or child- long dead, dressed in civilian clothes and no doubt killed in the bombs or in cold blood.

Or, perhaps, he is resigned, like when they had tried to help Paladin Danse (whom Hancock still did not quite trust) and were surrounded by ghouls and out of stimpaks and were certain that this was the end, or when he surveys the few remaining original buildings of Sanctuary and remembers what once might have been.

Or, maybe, the expression on his face is one of anger. They say that Angel is rarely angry, but in truth his anger is quiet, fuming; when he finds men trying to take advantage of a woman, when someone does an uncorrupted synth or ghoul harm, when he gets even the slightest hint of where his precious Shaun might be.

There are nights that Hancock wants to turn over in bed, to see if any of his assumptions are correct. He doesn't, though, because he doesn't want to ruin the moment, because he doesn't want Angel to know that he is awake, because he wants to sleep and respect Angel's privacy. He tells himself that, but the curiosity remains, like an itch resting under his skin that he can't quite scratch. Hancock is a curious creature by nature, and he can only resist for so long.

He resists until Sanctuary.

Hancock's high. Hell yeah, he's high as a fucking kite. The old lady with the Sight, or whatever it is, shared some of her Jet with him, and Hancock's not sure where she got it, but it's a hell of a lot stronger than the stuff he normally uses. Everything is sharp, detailed, from the rustle of the leaves to the smell of the cooking fires across the settlement. And underneath the sound, Hancock hears a holotape clicking into place and the familiar female voice.

" _See! Nonono, fingers away. There we go. Right there, right there."_

Hancock follows the sound without really thinking- who's he kidding, he can't think straight about anything right now. It leads him to a familiar, worn down house. The roof is almost completely patches, as are the walls, and he can see that someone has put some kind of effort into repainting the exterior. A testament to life before the war.

( _"You can't even compare this world to what it was in my time, Hancock," Angel had said sadly, taking another long drag of Jet and wiping at his eyes. Hancock didn't exactly approve of someone using drugs to drown away a problem, but if this is what it took for Angel to get it off of his chest, than Hancock was willing to roll with the punches._

" _War? War never changes. Neither do the people who wage the wars. The Brotherhood of Steel? The Institute? Sure, people like them existed when I was a soldier. But all of this?" Angel waved his hand to the world at a whole. Hancock can see a tear slip down the man's cheek. "People like them have destroyed everything, Hancock._ Everything _. It's gone, and it's never coming back, no matter how hard they try."_ )

Hancock opens the door with some hesitance, not exactly sure what he's going to find. Most of the house seems to have been stripped clean, not even the appliances remaining in the kitchen. The rooms without doors that Hancock passes are empty as well. The very last room in the hall had a red door, childish blocks zig-zagging _Shaun_ across the wood ( _"Would have been Emilie if she had a girl," Angel said, flipping a wooden block between his hands. "Nora didn't care. She just wanted a kid"_ ). Hancock pauses, uncertain. He's absolutely sure that Angel's in there, probably sitting next to the crib.

Suddenly, Hancock's not very sure he wants to see. He imagines seeing Angel there, crying. He imagines the empty expression that Angel gets during his episodes. He imagines all the expressions Angel _could_ be wearing and that Hancock doesn't want to see.

Happiness. Angel's expression is that of happiness. It's the kind of bitter happiness that Hancock knows well, when you outlive someone you loved greatly. Hancock supposes that is what this is: Angel outlived Nora by over 200 years, after all. That holotape is all he has left of her.

Hancock very quietly closes the door and meanders out of the house, leaving Angel to his own devices.

The next time he sees Angel, the man is sprawled out across the bed Hancock had been given in one of the smaller Sanctuary shacks. Most of Hancock's things are undisturbed, but Angel does have an inhaler of Jet dangling from his fingers, and his expression is that of someone out of their skin. Hancock doesn't say anything, just leans against the bed where he can rest his head on Angel's stomach and gently raises the man's hand so that he can take a drag from the inhaler.

"You okay, Brother?" Hancock wonders, finally, when he can feel the Jet starting to take effect. Angel's skin feels a bit damp beneath his shirt. "You've been out in the rain."

Angel hums, possibly a bit slow and definitely not all there. There's a sharp inhale before Angel drops the Jet into Hancock's lap and a hand falls between the ghoul's shoulders. Hancock tries very hard not to purr at the sensation of Angel working the knots out of his muscles. There's something wrong, and Hancock is determined not to lose his senses. It's hard, definitely, and especially when Angel starts to move his thumb in those absolutely sinful circles that almost have Hancock purring.

Hancock forces himself down. He reaches around to grab Angel's hand, bringing it around so that he can press a kiss into the center of the human's palm. "Angel, darling, what's eating at you?" he coos, and Angel sighs.

"It's been…" Angel pauses, taking a deep breath. "It's been a long day, Hancock."

( _"Never hide this kind of thing from me," Hancock had insisted, taking one of Angel's hands in both of his. "Never pretend to be happy for my sake. If you've had a hard day, don't be afraid to tell me, Darling."_

 _Angel had smiled, pulling Hancock in for a soft kiss._ )

Angel talks, and Hancock listens. It... It's hard to listen to. Everything Angel had been fighting for, and…

"It wasn't ten years, Hancock. It was _sixty_. _Sixty_. My little Shaun is _sixty years old_. He's old enough to be my _dad_. And he… He's…" Hancock moves them both so that Angel can sit in his lap, face buried in his shoulder, one of Hancock's rough hands carding through Angel's hair while the other rubs his back. "They've twisted him, Hancock," Angel whimpers, letting out an incredibly shaky breath. "The Institute… God, what they've done to him…"

Hancock makes little cooing noises in the back of his throat. Angel is trembling like he's about to collapse into one of his episodes, and Hancock is grateful that he lives alone in his little shack, and that the ones around him haven't found residents yet. Little whimpers claw their way out of Angel's throat, and Hancock can feel the human's heart fluttering through his ribs. ( _"The doctors called it shell-shock," Angel explained, sipping at a bottle of purified water. "Lasting psychological effects of the war. Apparently the war turns on the paranoia and the anxiety, and some people are never able to turn it off. Sorry you had to see me like that, Love."_ )

There's nothing more Hancock can do than let Angel cry is out. Angel sobs, he screams, and Hancock is again very grateful that he can't bruise when Angel starts to thrash and he has to catch the human's wrists and force him still. It's a terribly depressed kind of anger that drives the episode this time, and Hancock rolls with the punches- sometimes quite literally- until Angel has exhausted himself.

It's only then that he very slowly lets Angel loose, wincing at the bruises his hands left on the human's wrists. He shifts Angel very slowly, until the human is stretched out across the bed with his head in Hancock's lap. Angel's hand dangles off the side of the bed, clenching at air. Hancock knows what he wants, but that doesn't mean he's going to give it to him. He makes sure than Angel eats something, drinks some water, before taking Angel's hand in both of his, smiling comfortingly and humming softly until Angel finally falls asleep. He looks so relaxed when he's asleep, Angel, that Hancock sometimes wonders if the human fell from Heaven.

( _"Angel, huh? You really do live up to your name."_

 _Angel freezes, and for a moment his face is a symphony of pain and memory. It's gone as quickly as it came, however, and like a light switch flipped Angel is once again relaxed and easy. He excuses himself the moment he gets the chance, though._

 _Hancock never says anything along those lines again._ )

Hancock watches the sun rise in the window, a burning red orb, ready to illuminate a new day. He's very rarely awake and _sober_ to see the sun rising like this, but he thinks that this is definitely something he wants to do again. The sun stains the blue sky with pinks and purples and even though the clouds mean rain later in the week, in the day, Hancock doesn't care because right now this is so _fucking beautiful_.

"Pretty, huh?" Angel mumbles, and Hancock looks down to see the human's eye are slits, edges of gold just barely visible beneath dark lashes. His eyes are still red-rimmed, eyelashes still a bit crusty, but he still smiles like the sun rising through the window. He's still, by far, the most beautiful thing that Hancock has ever seen, and Hancock wants to lean down, kiss those sinfully soft lips, but he pauses.

Angel doesn't have the same reservations. He surges up, presses his mouth messily against Hancock's, a deep rumble in his chest like a big cat happily claiming its prey.

( _"You don't have to spend the rest of your life waking up to this ugly mug," Hancock said, drawing away as far as the wall at his back would let him. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."_

 _Angel smirked, ran a hand down Hancock's cheek. "There's no one else I'd rather wake up to, Hancock," he whispered, placing a kiss at the ghoul's jaw. "No one else I'd rather spend my life with." At the corner of his lips. "Never knew what I was wishing for, but I'm sure now that I was wishing for you." Hancock wanted to grumble at Angel for being a cheesy motherfucker, but Angel didn't really give him the chance to speak before he kissed him like there wouldn't be a tomorrow._

 _And just like that, Hancock was in love.)_

"It's going to be the kind of day that makes you want to stay inside, isn't it?" Hancock wonders when they have enough sense to pull away from each other and he notices Angel rubbing at his shoulder. There's a scar there, deep and ragged, the remnants of a bullet- or two, or three, apparently- that had torn through the flesh there. It apparently had never healed quite right, and any serious changes in air pressure leaves the joint there aching.

"I'm fine staying inside with you," Angel says with a smirk, pulling Hancock down for another kiss.

Hancock finds he's okay with that too.


	3. Chapter 3

**And now, our favorite synth whom we could never romance. But we can dream. We can dream.**

 **Word count: 2,226**

 **Warnings: Major spoilers (Fallout 4), people in pain, people getting prosthetics, didn't actually know how to word this, boys in love.**

* * *

 **Rocket 69**

 ** _Nick Valentine/Angel Mao_**

Nick Valentine doesn't actually sleep, but sometimes he wishes he could, if only for the sake of having a moment's reprieve.

The screams would have made Nicks stomach turn over, if he had one. As it is, he just feels like he has some terrible system error, even though his systems are indicating nothing and a check finds equally nothing.

The Institute is still smoldering in the backround while Irma and Amari work on Angel's arm. For all his recreational drug use, the Vault survivor- the _Sole Survivor_ \- had refused any kind of medication to help with the pain of having an entirely new mechanical arm grafted to his flesh.

And now he is cursing Irma's, Amari's, and every Institute Synth's ancestors in the kind of pejorative language that would make Nick's grandmother proud. The shouting makes Nick want to turn down his auditory sensors. He doesn't, though.

( _"I trust you to have my back in here, Nick," Angel said, grinning and hoisting what Nick knew to be an_ Institute automatic rifle _. "I'm sure they won't give us too much trouble, but there's going to be a lot of them inside here."_

 _Nick just grinned, all metal teeth and feral joy at the thought of finally bringing this place down._ )

The clank of powerarmor boots jostles Nick out of his thoughts, and the synth only barely keeps himself from snarling at the sight of three Brotherhood knights approaching from down the street. The people of Goodneighbor are riled up as it is, with Angel having to go through the surgery and all, and right not Nick isn't sure he'd step in if they decided they didn't want the Brotherhood of Steel stamping about in their town.

"If your idea was civil calm, Maxson," Nick says when they get close enough, his voice even but tinged with distaste, "I would have left your armor at home."

The Elder stops, then, with a moments irresolution, dismounts from his armor. Some of the ghouls that pass snarl as they hurry along, and Nick only cocks an eyebrow when the twitchy Paladins raise their guns. "You're in Goodneighbor, folks," he reminds coldly. "Firing a gun here isn't exactly your best idea. Never know when the Mayor might be creeping behind you."

The Paladins jump, their eyes big and nervous, and Maxson snaps at them to calm down. "My apologies. We meant no offense by coming here, and we certainly didn't mean to rile the… locals." Maxson grimaces at the word as though it tastes foul on his tongue, and Nick only barely keeps his face blank. "I simply needed to speak with my Sentinel."

Another scream punctures the night, and Maxson and the Paladins take a step back. A few ghouls who are friends of Angel and have chosen to sit out the night with him lurch forward as if to try and save him, but Nick just waves them back into their seats. This time, Nick can't stop the frown that tugs at his lips. Maxson clearly doesn't _care_ about Angel, just the soldier who's helped the Brotherhood a couple of times.

"As you can see, gentlemen," Nick growls, and has to pause as Angel goes off on a rant that is less of a rant and more of a long string of obscenities pointed vaguely at the Institute, the Brotherhood, and the world at large. "As you can see, gentlemen," Nick begins again, and this time pushes through Angel's howls, "your _Sentinel_ is currently out of commission, and will be likely until he can acclimate to his new limb. So unless the matter is urgent, I would give him a month. If you do need to see him ASAP, come back in three days."

Maxson opens his mouth, clearly about to argue with Nick and, as though by some divine intervention to keep Nick from socking the Elder in his face, Irma chose then to stick her head out of the door. She completely ignored the Brotherhood of Steel soldiers, instead grabbing Nick's arm. "He's still refusing medication and he's trashing enough to botch the operation."

Angel is… Angel is not a pretty sight. His dark hair is plastered to his sweat-drenched forehead. His face is twisted into a grimace, baring teeth and contorting scars. Amari is sitting at his left, still very cautiously grafting the metal to the flesh. "Just hold him down at the shoulders," Amari orders calmly. "I have his arm strapped down, but he's still moving too much."

Nick moves to pin Angel down by the shoulders, wincing as his hands graze over old and knotted scars. Gunshot wounds, knife wounds, burn marks: the testament to Angel's life as a prewar soldier is written out on his skin.

( _"Was never a cautious soldier," Angel said, taking a drag of his cigarette. He never did drugs recreationally in Nick's presence, out of respect for the detective's personal principles, but Nick can see the survivor's fingers twitching for something stronger than nicotine. "I would get beat up all the time. I actually don't remember a time after I was deployed when I wasn't some kind of injured. Drove Nora crazy, that did."_ )

There's a whine, high and pained, and Angel tucks his face into Nick's shoulder. The thrashing winds down to full-body twitches here and there, which are easy enough to control. Angel just whines and whines, teeth buried in the fabric of Nick's coat. Every now and then, he draws back enough to babble, mostly senseless in the most basic language that Angel knows, a hundred apologies in a tongue long dead that only machines remember.

Nick can't even imagine the kind of pain the survivor must be going through right now. He brushes hair off of Angel's sweaty forehead, murmurs gentle words and broken phrases. It's the best he can do with his weak grasp of the language; Takahashi offered, once, to upload the knowledge to Nick's memory, but Nick insisted on learning it the old-fashioned way, word by word, rule by rule. He's certain he's little more fluent than a child, but Angel isn't much better at the moment, so he supposes that this is okay. Angel mutters something brokenly into Nick's shoulder, and it takes Nick a full five seconds to translate.

He regrets it immediately.

" _I killed him, Valentine. I killed Shaun_."

Nick's gears stutter in his chest. He presses a kiss against Angel's forehead, murmuring what small reassurances he can. Angel probably can't hear him, as delirious with pain as he is, Nick realizes, but he… He tries anyway. Because he _has to_.

"Done," Amari proclaims, setting aside her tools. The graft is a clean one, the cleanest Nick has seen in a while, and he's almost surprised she could do that with a patient refusing medication. The metal melds almost seamlessly with the yellowed-paper flesh of Angel's shoulder. The metal limb that is attached is something Amari clearly put a lot of work into: smooth and gleaming, it bears quite a resemblance to a real arm, ignoring the seams and bolts and stainless steel sheen of it. "We'll check on him every now and then to make sure he's not rejecting it. You can take him home now, Valentine."

And Nick is careful, so careful as he gathers the survivor, arms crossed over his stomach, head resting on Nick's shoulder. The Brotherhood of Steel is still waiting outside when Nick carries Angel out. Nick just glares at them as he passes, the locals stalking not far behind and warding the Paladins and Elder away. Maxson, upon seeing Angel's new, mechanical arm, at least has the decency to look guilty.

Nick doesn't care.

Nick cleans Angel up as best he can, wiping the sweat off his skin with a wet cloth, dressing him into some fresh clothing. The old clothes go into the bucket to be washes later, and, putting Angel to bed, Nick regrets not keeping more blankets in the house when all he has the cover the survivor is a thin sheet and his own coat. Angel doesn't seem to mind; he curls into a loose ball, drawing Nick's coat in closer with both hands.

Silver-steel gleams in the dim light streaming in from the door, and Nick frowns. Angel seems to be taking well to the graft, being able to move it unconsciously and so soon, but still… Nick takes Angel's mechanical hand in his own, noting the stark differences between the two. Nicks fingers are sharper, more angular, clearly meant to be covered in something at least semi-permanently. In comparison, Angel's fingers are thicker, softer, as close to real as something like this could get. Irma clearly made some adjustments while Amari grafted, because the metal arm is almost an exact replica of Angel's flesh arm, down to the thickness and muscle detailing.

"She really outdid herself, didn't she?" Nick murmured to no one in particular, brushing Angel's hair out of his face.

( _"Irma never does anything in half-measures, does she?" Angel wondered, brushing his hand along where there had been a bullet hole not an hour earlier. The shoulder had been repaired, and according to Nick it was almost better than it had been before he'd been injured. Irma had even patched up the false skin. If Nick didn't have the record of being injured in his memory, he probably wouldn't have even known anything had happened to his shoulder._

" _No, she doesn't, does she?" Nick smiled, placing his hand over Angel's, but Angel's eyes weren't on his shoulder. "What's wrong, Dollface? Do I have something in the old gap?"_

 _Angel flinched, frowning an adverting his eyes, and Nick felt Angel's hand curling into a fist against his collarbone. "No. It's just… Have you ever asked her to fix that for you? Not because it's disturbing, it's just so… vulnerable." Angel frowned, his other hand coming up to rest against the side of Nick's neck, his thumb brushing against the ragged edge of the hole. "I can see your spine, Nick. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is, to know that anyone could just reach into there and tear it out and neither of us would be able to do anything to stop it?"_

" _People generally don't get that close," Nick assured with a chuckle, hugging Angel gently. "I'd like to think I'm experienced enough now not to let anyone I don't want too close. And even if they did catch me off guard, you've got my back, right?"_ )

"I'm sorry I didn't have your back, back there," Nick says. Logically, there had been nothing either of them could do. The synth had taken them by surprise, separated the two of them, slammed Angel against the wall. Nick would have emptied a clip into the damn thing's head, but the roof started to come down and…

Nick lets out an uneasy breath and shakes the memories from his head. He pats Angel's hand, closes the door as he leaves, and busies himself with paperwork for the rest of the night to keep what happened at the Institute from the foreground of his mind.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Angel wakes with a hoarse groan that brings Nick running. "Valentine?" Angel rasps, and Nick presses a bottle of water to his lips. The synth has to force him to drink evenly, but Angel finishes the bottle without choking. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Angel manages, his human hand seeking out Nick's face. Nick guides it there with his metal one, smiling softly to hide his worry. Some of it must show, though, because Angel brushes his thumb across the crow's feet at the corner of Nick's eye. "That bad, huh?"

Nick huffs and shakes his head. "No, no. The operation went well, if you hadn't noticed yet. Clean graft. It's just…" Nick sighs, gripping Angel's hand a bit harder than he would normally allow himself. "Next time, take the damn Med-X, would you? You kept all of Goodneighbor up with your screaming."

"Wouldn't have been the first time I woke the neighborhood up by screaming, huh?" Angel jokes, socking Nick in the arm, and he pauses. His mouth falls open a little, and Nick realizes that this is the first time Angel's seen his mechanical arm. "Damn," Angel says with more awe than the disgust Nick was expecting. "Irma never does anything in half-measures, does she?"

They both chuckle, and Angel is more than a little breathless as he explores the capabilities of his new limb. He winces a few times, and Nick isn't entirely sure Angel should really be moving at all so soon after the grafting, but the look of childish wonder on Angel's face keeps him from saying stop.

"This is amazing," Angel whispers, clenching and unclenching his fist. Nick takes his hand and guides it down to the bed.

"It is. It's also very, very fresh. And you haven't had near enough sleep." Angel pouts, and Nick just ruffles his hair. "Move over, silly, and we'll see what you can do with this thing once you've slept on it for a night, huh?"

Nick Valentine doesn't actually sleep, but when he opens his eyes in the morning, his Angel in his arms, he feels more human than he'd felt in a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Dude, MacCready grew up, and he grew up into a _handsome_ piece of shit. It's hard to believe that little cussing kid and this trying-really-hard-not-to-cuss, not-so-little man are actually the same person sometimes. If that made any sense at all.**

 **Word count: 2,358**

 **Warnings: Spoilers (Fallout 4), canon-typical violence, injuries, goddamn deathclaws, mention of side-character death.**

* * *

 **Quests**

 ** _Angel Mao/Robert "RJ" MacCready_**

Whatever soldier Angel was before the war, they clearly don't use that style of combat anymore. One wouldn't even know he was a soldier just by looking at him; maybe a scarred civilian or a weathered survivor of the wastes, but not a soldier. He walks like there's nothing in the world that can worry him. He smiles like he's never experienced hardship.

And the moment there is so much as a whiff of trouble, Angel becomes a completely different man. MacCready can see the lines of stress, the stiff tension in the shoulders, the hawk-sharp, wary brightness of those golden eyes. Angel moves like a cat stalking its prey, gracefully, noiselessly floating about. It's an impressive thing to watch, even just through a scope, as the man creeps forward, dark leather armor blending with the shadows, switchblade in hand, green mask the only splash of color against the drab browns and greys of the surrounding buildings.

The first Brotherhood of Steel member falls silently, dragged back with a rag over his mouth. Angel takes the time to make a clean cut in the man's calf, not through anything serious, but enough to take him out of the battle. But he's quick about it, efficient, and it's only seconds before he's moving on.

There are fights raging all through the Railroad, the people here just trying to defend their home-turf against the Brotherhood. MacCready only feels safe in his nest, watching Angel's back, because there are two men in powerarmor watching the only entrance, and there are other snipers in this nest to watch his back. Plus, there's Dogmeat. Normally the hound was a constant shadow at Angel's side, but Angel'd had a few choice words with Dogmeat, and she is sticking resolutely to MacCready's side.

( _"I have no idea where she was trained," Angel said, one arm hanging of the side of the bed to pet Dogmeat where she lay, the other brushing through MacCready's hair. Dogmeat had wondered in only after they were both spent and boneless- looking for a warm place to sleep, no doubt. "She had to have been trained somewhere, though. Sure, she's a smart pup, but there're some things that instincts just can't make up for."_

MacCready reaches down to give Dogmeat a scratch on the head when he sees a Paladin in powerarmor scrabbling for his helmet, alarmed. A choice shot knocks the helmet out of the Paladin's hand, and Angel does this strange twist with the man's arm that forces him to lose grip of his gun. A short knock to the back of the head, and the Paladin is laying face-down in the dirt.

Angel flips a thumbs-up briefly in the direction of the nest before moving on.

It goes on like this for hours. Angel slinks from group of Brotherhood to group of Brotherhood, repeating the process. He's outside of MacCready's sight for very few times, never for more than a few seconds. There was one scare when Angel passed through one building as a shortcut. MacCready counted the seconds with baited breath, palms sweaty on his sniper. Angel spilled out of the door with a Brotherhood man under him, his face twisted into the kind of snarl that made MacCready's stomach turn.

Mac has made certain since not to let Angel too long out of his sights.

An explosion somewhere east rocks the tower a bit, and Dogmeat's ears go down as she growls. Another goes off, then another, until MacCready and the other snipers can't ignore them anymore. He radios the team closest to Angel, hoping that they get the message, before turning his sights on the approaching Paladins in powerarmor and the soldiers that follow behind. The Paladins are tripping mines left and right. The individual blasts normally wouldn't do much to damage that kind of equipment, but Mac's betting on the damage stacking up as he lines up his sights.

There's another detonation, a hel- a lot bigger, this time from the north, and MacCready watches incredulously through his scope as a deathclaw rams into the Paladins from the side. A flailing limb sets off another mine, sending it staggering back into a wall and putting it in a place where it can't hurt anyone, and all available fire is on the beast that's still trying to get its orientation. The Brotherhood members start to fall back, scrambling over rubble in their haste, the Paladins assisting in the fight as best they can as they follow the other men.

( _"It took almost five people to take down that deathclaw yesterday," Angel said, shrugging out of his armor. There was a large section missing from the back where a claw had gone right through the leather and the thin shirt beneath and had grazed the scarred skin of Angel's back. Dried blood had stuck the fabric to the skin in some places, and Angel hissed as he pulled the shirt over his head. "I know you wanted to go with us, R.J., but I'm_ really _glad you weren't there. It was a small one, and it still fought like a fucking behemoth."_

 _Mac shook his head, incredulous, as he began to clean up Angel's back. There probably wouldn't be any need for bandages or anything of that sort, but Mac still meticulously washed away the blood and grime and plucked out the bits of metal and stone that had gotten stuck in the wound._ )

It's another good hour before MacCready gets to come down from his nest. It's another hour before MacCready gets to see the damage that the Brotherhood of Steel managed to wreck on Railroad, despite their best attempts to keep them out. It's a good hour before MacCready is walking down a ruined street, Dogmeat at his side, and Danse comes running up to him, eyes wide in panic.

His ribs are broken in three places, fractured in three more. His left knee had been dislocated, ankle fractured. His right ankle is sprained. His mechanical arm, by some miracle of good engineering, is only a bit scuffed and dinged, the grafting, though still a bit raw, completely unharmed. The doctors are milling around him, flirting between him and other patients, trying to give them all attention at once and only partially succeeding. Deacon is sitting by the bed, stupid sunglasses off for once, and he looks tired when Dogmeat runs to her master's side and he glances up to see MacCready at the tent flap, Danse hovering behind.

"Uh, yeah. About this," Deacon begins awkwardly, looking at least a little bit guilty about being the team that led Angel right into that deathclaw. They'd used said deathclaw to scare off the Brotherhood, sure, but not before it'd had a field day with the team. "Mr. Hero here got a little hand-sy with the deathclaw when it popped up out of nowhere. Lost his switchblade in the damn thing's neck trying to get it off of Hayle. Hancock's gonna throw a damn fit."

MacCready walks past him wordlessly, getting on his knees beside the bed so he can cradle Angel's mechanical hand in his own. It wouldn't do him any better to hold the other one; three fingers are cut up pretty badly, and the bandages go halfway up the arm. Landed on glass, or something equally damaging. There's a bruise across the bridge of Angel's nose that spreads in florid colors beneath his eyes and blood caked in his hair that no one's gotten around to washing out yet and probably won't get around to washing out for a while now and all MacCready can think is how he should have been watching his back.

Dogmeat whines, licking at their entangled hands, and Mac gives her a scratch on the head to keep her calm. "He's a reckless fool, isn't he?" he murmurs, and Dogmeat gives a yip and a doggy-smile for his efforts. A doctor comes by, clipboard in hand.

( _"Meet Doctor Amari, the woman who grafted me a new arm."_

 _MacCready smiled, taking Amari's hand though they'd met before. He didn't know she did this kind of work, though._

" _Your Angel was very lucky that we got to him not long after he lost the limb," Amari explained critically, thunking her first gently against the metal of Angel's shoulder. "There was little down period between the loss of the real arm and the grafting of the new one, so his brain never had time to process that anything was missing in the first place. All in all, I don't think I've seen a cleaner graft or a smoother transition."_

 _MacCready thanked Amari with all his heart, but still the words did not feel like enough._ )

"Need you to move so I can check on him, Mr. MacCready," she says, scooting past the sniper, and MacCready does his best to become part of the tent fabric as the pitters around Angel's bed, checking vitals with machines that have certainly seen better days and peeling back half-done bandages to check more severe wounds. She checks a few things off on her clipboard, clicking her tongue. "No sign of infection, internal bleeding, or radioactive poisoning. He's detoxing right now, so he's going to wake up pretty sore. If you're going to keep an eye on him for us, Mr. MacCready, I have to ask that you don't give him anything, no matter how convincing he becomes."

Only lingering long enough to draw a promise out of MacCready, the doctor moves onto the next patient. MacCready drags up a chair to the side of the bed, taking Angel's hand again as he lays his head on the empty space beside the man's sleeping body. Mac can hear the smooth sounds of Angel's breathing beside his ear. It's to that comforting sound that MacCready falls asleep.

Angel recovers, slowly, in stages. At first, it's a lot of his grumbling: at not being allowed meds, at being bed-ridden, at being hurt in the first place. He inquires constantly about the progress of the repairs and about the people who were injured in the fight ( _his eyes went wise when he was informed that the Brotherhood of Steel faced no fatalities, while the Railroad and allies faced over a dozen_ ) and about the surrounding settlements that might have been affected by the fighting. He designates Minutemen duties with Preston's help.

When Arthur Maxson arrives to discuss the terms of their armistice, Angel does so from his bed, looking no less intimidating sitting in a loose white robe, bloodied and bruised and unarmed, than he had in his leathers, healthy and fresh and armed to the teeth. Maxson has at least the decency to look guilty when Angel informs him of the broad difference in casualties.

( _"War won't change until the people who wage war change," Angel hissed angrily, fists clenching in his lap as he visibly struggled to contain himself. "Look at yourself honestly, Maxson, and when you can tell me truthfully that you are one of the people intending to change war, not further perpetrate it, then you and the Brotherhood may return to the Commonwealth. Until that time, you and the men who say they follow you are not welcome here." Angel paused, his face shifting from anger to a strange mixture of sympathy and sadness. "These people may not be perfect," he said, gesturing to the Railroad, to the Commonwealth, as a whole with his mechanical hand, "but there is no prejudice in these walls. There is no hatred for a person because of their birth, only hatred for the actions committed and condoned by the person. We don't claim to dictate the thoughts and opinions of others. We don't censure them, don't force them into a line of thought, not until their line of thought becomes dangerous to the collective freedom. And even then, we just ask them to leave. Are there still mindless squabbles about race and gender and status as a person? Yes, definitely. But we're allowed the freedom to speak and argue openly."_

 _As if to let that sink in, Angel let a moment pass, watching Arthur's face carefully. There was little to see there, but MacCready could have sworn he saw a bit of understanding glow in those eyes of steel. "It's not the metal or the flesh that makes a person, Maxson. It's the ability to choose what you do with your future. The Brotherhood would have taken that away from these people._ You _would have taken that away from these people. By my definition, you would have taken away what made them people. Fates be with you, where ever you walk, Elder Maxson. Deacon!" Angel called, and the man appeared, silently, as though he'd always been there. "Could you and some of your boys make sure they leave? Let them have a couple crates of supplies as they go, too. I know we're stretched thin, but the settlements have sent some surplus food and basic medical supplies. They might not have bodies to bury, but they have lives to look out for and a long journey to make still."_ )

About a week and a dozen stimpacks, Angel is up and moving again, though slower and more carefully than usual. He makes it to see the Prydwen off, shaking hands with Maxson as Minutemen drop off a few more boxes of supplies into the hands of the Brotherhood. Maxson doesn't grimace when he grips Angel's mechanical hand, but he does look a bit miffed. He leaves without saying anything, though. Angel waves as the Prydwen begins the move, riding the winds south.

"There's an old Arthurian legend about a ship named the Prydwen," Angel says as he watches it disappear. "They set sail aboard the ship to obtain a relic form an island. The pride of one knight spoils the entire quest, and only seven would return to the mainland."

"They all get to go home," MacCready points out. "Isn't that a hel- a lot better than the old story?"

There's a smile on Angel's face, but something about it is so very sad.


End file.
